On the other hand, his new friend and neighbour, Solly Bernstein, was trying hard to convince him to invest his money in the rag trade and, in particular, his own garment-making business in the East End. Tommy grinned at the image of the exasperated open-armed Solly shaking his head and telling him he was making a mistake when he politely declined.
‘I’m only looking after your best interests, Tommy, my boy.’
‘Yeah, Solly, I’m sure you are.’
He liked Solly, nevertheless, for he was amusing and gregarious and he was looking forward to his party in the evening.
The warmth and softness of his bed and the quiet of the early morning instilled a reflective mood in him. He was twenty-seven years old and at the peak of his stellar career. He was a superb centre-half and considered by many to be the best defender in the world after displays which included stopping the peerless Brazilian genius, Pelé, and superlative Dutch wizard, Johan Cruyff, from performing their particular brands of magic. He was revered in England and around the world, with the looks and public image that made mothers dream that their daughters would bring him home one day as their boyfriend. Only George Best was more famous among footballers in England but he was definitely the last person any mother would want their daughter to meet.
Tommy smiled as he lapsed into recollections of his footballing battles at Wembley, Old Trafford, the Maracanã and San Siro, and also of his wonderful East End parents and home in Hackney. But where did his incredible ability come from? This was always a mystery to him for his father could barely kick a ball while his brother never progressed further than the football pitches of the famous Marshes nearby. He knew where his six feet in height and fair good looks came from, however, for he was the spitting image of his father, with both of them possessing short, tight, blonde curly hair and piercing sky-blue eyes. He grinned with relief at the knowledge that his father still maintained a good barnet, and hoped that his own would last equally as long.
Another way in which he resembled his father was in the manner he held his head up high and back ramrod straight. Together with his height and shoulders as square as a tailor’s model, they added to his charisma and air of command. He did not know whether these characteristics were genetic or not, or whether they resulted from his observing his father as a young child, for he had been in the army and always seemed to march rather than walk around the house. But where he differed from his family, and especially his brother, was in his ruthless, steel-eyed determination to succeed in whatever he did; this innate competitiveness ran through him like lettering through Brighton rock.
When it became obvious as a young boy that he was overflowing with God-given footballing talent, he made a promise to his family that he would play for his beloved West Ham United and England one day. On witnessing their dubious frowns, he added that he would not only play for these teams but also captain them. While his brother laughed his head off, his parents noticed instead the obsessive, almost demonic look in his eyes which convinced them that he had a chance. They knew he would pursue his dream like a hound would a hare. His father, in particular, swelled with pride at seeing such confidence in his son. And he hadn’t let them down.
But if truth be told, his clean-cut, good-boy public image was highly exaggerated. He had broken many girls’ hearts following countless one night stands, caring little to nothing for their feelings and often brutally telling them where to go in the morning. Indeed, if he had cut a notch in the bed he was lying in on all the occasions he had shared it with a different girl, it would have collapsed a very long time ago.
He had treated his childhood sweetheart, Cheryl, dreadfully, over many years, turning her into a nervous wreck over his infidelities. The unknowing public at large loved them as a couple and was somewhat in shock when Tommy revealed in the News of the World during the summer that, with huge regret, they had decided to split up. In reality, it was more a massive relief than a huge regret, for the fights and arguments and tension between them had nearly driven them both insane, though none of this was ever publicly circulated. The overriding reason for this was because Tommy cultivated excellent relationships with all the sports’ editors of the national newspapers. In return for interviews and tips about West Ham and England, they all agreed not to publish any information which could undermine his image. Accordingly, all approaches from the kiss-and-tells were dismissed out of hand. When Cheryl had given an interview to Woman’s Own, tearfully revealing the truth about their relationship, Fleet Street had gone into overdrive, opining that Cheryl’s comments were those of a demented, bitter girl unable to come to terms with rejection. This public view took hold and Cheryl was driven to medication, so ill did she become. Tommy also knew what the newspaper reporters got up to on the long trips away from home when England were playing and there was always an implicit threat that their better halves might just get to know should anything negative be written about him.
In addition, Tommy made it clear that nothing should ever be written about his relationship with those old school friends of his who had gone off the straight and narrow. He was fiercely loyal to and held great affection for the friends he had grown up with and would turn a blind eye to any knowledge he might have acquired concerning their thievery, thuggery or worse … and there had been worse. This loyalty was returned and any bad-mouthing of Tommy often resulted in a good beating or slash across the cheek with a knife. Tommy did not necessarily approve of their actions but he would never condemn them, either.
For its part, Fleet Street was invariably happy with these arrangements for Tommy’s tips, which he would share around evenly, were often headline-making and any interview he gave was thought-provoking and contained gems of information. Circulation figures soared whenever an interview with Tommy Slater was published. And, in any case, why would Fleet Street want to cultivate another bad boy image when they had enough material on the likes of George Best, Frank Worthington and Stan Bowles to cut down the whole Amazon rain forest for paper? Yes, Fleet Street was happy with Tommy and Tommy was happy with Fleet Street. The arrangement suited them both. Tommy was in control, and he liked nothing better than to be in control.
Tommy’s recollections of his childhood and, more specifically, of his growing up in the loving bosom of his close-knit family, which were so vivid this particular morning, only re-stirred those deep-rooted pangs of desire of his to have such a family himself. These pangs had been growing more strongly in each passing day and he knew that the time had come to find a wonderful girl with whom he could share the rest of his life. He had always imagined that girl to be Cheryl but he now accepted that it was never meant to be. He was fed up of all the one night stands and stupid flirtations. He wasn’t a teenager anymore and his parents had been five years younger than he was now when they had got married. He felt ancient by comparison. And his younger brother’s wife had already borne him two beautiful children, Alfie and Daisy, on whom Tommy doted. Yes, it was definitely time to settle down. It was not as if he had missed out on the joys of youth, after all. Far from it!
‘Morning, big boy. And how are you today?’
Tommy turned his face away from the girl who was sharing his bed and sighed when she tried to snuggle up more closely. He didn’t budge an inch, hoping that she would quickly get the message that he wasn’t interested.
‘Okay, Debs, I suppose,’ Tommy responded without any warmth. In fact, he tried to make it sound as cold as possible.
‘It’s Donna, not Debs,’ came the grumpy reply.
Tommy couldn’t even be bothered to apologise. Debs, Donna, they were all the same to him. God, there were more groupies hanging around the England football team than the Rolling Stones, he reflected, remembering how he had met Donna after the match against Poland in October. He had taken down her number that evening but only rang it a couple of days earlier. How he regretted it, and particularly so now, when he glanced down at her puffy face, with half her slap wiped away, and tits so big and saggy that they spread and flopped
across her chest like two wobbling jellies topped with cherries. And no ordinary cherries, either, but two giant ugly ones, so giant in fact that if she stood up straight, he was sure he could hang his coat up on them, and his heavy sheepskin one at that.
‘I have to get up in a minute and get over to the ground for training.’
‘What, at seven-thirty in the morning?’
‘Yeah, we’re meeting up early. With all these Christmas and New Year games coming up one after the other, we need to get ourselves properly prepared.’
‘Still seems a bit early to me,’ Donna replied grumpily, snuggling up tighter and running her hand up between his legs.
Gordon Bennett! Can’t she take a hint? Tommy thought in despair. He began to feel irritated though she was slowly bringing a part of him back to life. This was always the worst moment, he knew, trying to get rid of the girl in the morning. It never ceased to be crucifyingly awkward when they lingered expectantly for him to arrange another date, and the ultimate feeling of relief when they finally departed was enormous. It had to stop, though. He had to settle down. Once he had got rid of Debs, sorry, Donna, it would be all over; no more one night stands.
Tommy was on the verge of spelling it out as plainly as possible that she should sling her hook when, looking up at him with a filthy grin, she increased the tempo of her hand movement. Tommy considered, well, perhaps just this one last time. But there was no way he was going to gaze at that rough, lipstick- and mascara-smeared boat race of hers, and so, without feeling, he put his hand on the back of her head and pushed it firmly down towards his crotch.
CHAPTER 10
‘Victoria. Brenda. How lovely to see you! Thank you for coming, and may I say how delectable you both look?’ Solly Bernstein, in his customary open-armed pose and oozing charm, was as effusive in his greetings as ever when answering his doorbell for the umpteenth time that evening. The two young women smiled back a touch nervously but their confidence rose on hearing the compliment and they quickly relaxed for Solly possessed that warmth of personality that put everyone at ease. And he was correct; they did look delectable.
Vicki had ummed and ahhed for ages at home earlier, trying to decide what she would wear for the party, and it had taken Rhys’s intervention to finally make up her mind. When he saw her gazing in the mirror, her face a picture of doubt, wearing her white flared dress that fell just above the knee and told her she looked amazing and even more beautiful than Jaqueline Bisset, that was good enough for Vicki. Despite their problems, Rhys still possessed that touch of magic that made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. The dress was in reality more suitable for the summer and left her arms bare, so she wore a fine, navy-blue cashmere cardigan over it. On her feet, she fastened her strappy, navy-blue sandals, which, like her dress, were more appropriate for the summer, but, which, nevertheless, were her favourites. She decided not to wear any tights for she felt sexier without them despite the weather being cold and sleety outside. Having booked a minicab, which would collect Brenda on the way, she knew she would barely have to face up to the elements in any case and, even when she did, she would be covered up in her royal-blue overcoat for protection. As ever, when dressing up for a special occasion, she wore only the slightest hint of any make-up. It was only when she was en route to Brenda’s, however, that she became concerned about how nautical she looked, how she might look like a sailor with all the blue and white she was wearing, and how too underdressed she seemed for the season. Was she making her intentions too obvious? Without thinking it at the time, she now realised that, subconsciously, she probably was and her earlier confidence quickly sank. In truth, her worries were misplaced as Solly’s compliment was on the money. She looked stupendous.
The same was true for Brenda, though in a different way. She was wearing a fashionable inky-black corduroy maxi skirt which covered her knee-length tan boots. Vicki disliked the new maxi style and thought there was enough material in Brenda’s skirt to upholster her sofa. On top, she wore a crisp bright-white blouse, unbuttoned low enough to reveal the edge of a white bra which held in her ample bosom. Over the shirt, she wore a tightly fastened burgundy and grey striped waistcoat which served to accentuate her cleavage and athletic figure. She was taller than Vicki, with long wavy brown hair framing a rather serious-looking face that appeared older than her thirty-one years. Brenda always looked serious, or was it just a permanently resigned expression formed over years of waiting for her boyfriend to propose marriage? They were going through one of their bad patches at the moment so she had not invited him along, not that he would have gone anyway. But while Brenda knew Vicki was ready to move on from Rhys, she still harboured hopes that everything would work out well in the end with her Trevor.
‘Come in, come in,’ Solly carried on enthusiastically, kissing them both twice on the cheek and thanking them profusely yet again for coming. ‘Let me take your coats and, tell me, what would you like to drink?’
Before receiving a reply, Solly beckoned Vicki and Brenda to follow him and, after putting their coats on top of a number of others in a bedroom, they proceeded into the spacious oblong kitchen, all gleaming stainless-steel units and glistening white tiles, the table and work counter overflowing with bottles of booze and platters of nibbles. A few guests were milling around, chatting away, glasses in hand, the male ones eyeing Vicki and Brenda in an obvious manner. Solly asked each and every one of them, hand on shoulder, if they were enjoying the party and reminded them to feel free to grab a drink at any time and to dip into the food. Vicki and Brenda smiled at each other. You had to hand it to Solly, he knew how to make everyone feel at home. ‘Now, tell me again, what’s your poison?’ Solly asked.
‘I’ll have a gin and tonic if you don’t mind,’ Brenda replied, looking at Vicki as if to seek her approval.
‘And the same for me, thanks,’ Vicki concurred with a grateful smile.
‘Roger and John are in the living room with their delectable wives,’ Solly continued as he mixed the drinks.
‘Ah, they’ve arrived, have they?’ Brenda replied in reference to their work colleagues and wondering whether Solly thought every woman he met was ‘delectable’.
After placing a slice of lemon into each of their drinks, he handed the two glasses over and invited them to follow him into the living room where the inimitable voice of Frank Sinatra, Solly’s hero, could be heard singing The Lady is a Tramp in the background.
‘Hello, Vicki, Brenda. Long time no see,’ Roger began in an attempt at a joke as they had in fact all been together earlier in the day. ‘I think you know Betty,’ he carried on, introducing his wife, ‘and Phyllis,’ introducing John’s.
The doorbell rang and Solly excused himself.
‘Yes, we met once before,’ Vicki replied, shaking the hands of the two wives, who in turn shook Brenda’s.
Betty and Phyllis smiled, if somewhat forced and wary as they eyed Vicki and Brenda, wondering what the true relationship was between them and their husbands, for they were both young and very attractive. Vicki was about to resume speaking when John cut in, looking over her shoulder, his eyes agog.
‘Crumbs, look who’s just walked in?’ Vicki and Brenda turned their heads round. ‘It’s Tommy Slater,’ John continued, not that he needed to spell it out.
They all locked their eyes on him as he proceeded to the other side of the room, accompanied by Solly, who introduced him to his business partner in yet another attempt to convince him to invest in his company. When it came to business, Solly didn’t like to hang around.
Vicki’s group all looked away, not wishing to appear rude by staring, and Roger took up the conversation. But Vicki wasn’t listening and in fact couldn’t care less whether she appeared rude or not as she continued to fix her gaze on Tommy. As a non sequitur to Roger’s hushed history of their company’s involvement with Solly’s, Vicki eventually turned and interrupted him. ‘My God, I knew he was good looking but he’s even better in the flesh. He’s absolutely gorg
eous.’ Roger stopped in his tracks and they all looked at Vicki, the dumpy middle-aged wives thinking her somewhat childish.
‘Calm down now, Vicki, let’s not get all excited,’ John replied with a grin.
But Vicki was getting all excited. She was possessed by the same trembling feeling she had experienced when first meeting Rhys and which she subsequently convinced herself she would never experience again. How wrong she was. As Roger re-started the conversation, Vicki occasionally glanced over at Tommy out of the corner of her eye, totally oblivious to what Roger was saying. He was so handsome, she acknowledged, with that straight back deportment of his, as he towered over the short and portly Solly and his even shorter and more portly business partner, Isaac. She also noted that he was unaccompanied.
Tommy was wearing black, flared crimplene trousers without a hint of a crease or wrinkle in them anywhere. His tan, slightly platformed high-heel slip-ons made him appear taller still and only added to his air of command. Like his trousers, his sage-green shirt was impeccable as was his wide, bright-orange Windsor-knotted tie. His spruce-green, double-breasted worsted jacket, with fine herringbone weave, contoured his body so perfectly and showed off his broad shoulders and narrow waist so flatteringly that Vicki believed it must have been cut and sewn in Savile Row. Vicki could also see how Tommy was becoming slightly exasperated during the course of his conversation with Solly and Isaac, who was sombrely dressed and particularly distinctive due to his two braids and black wide-brimmed hat.
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